We live in politically combustible times, when social media posts ignite wars and half of the Western world’s populace seems determined to usher in an apocalypse if only to spite their perceived enemies. Under such fraught circumstances, it might be tempting to disregard writing, reading, and viewing horror fiction and film as relatively feckless pursuits, unable to spur humanitarian action or usher in better, more equitable living conditions. This view, however, is entirely incorrect. Stories about monsters and mayhem are precisely what we need when real monsters and mayhem are at our doorstep. And the horror genre can’t help but involve itself in the current conflicts of our age. Let me explain why.
By its very nature, the horror genre magnifies the dangers of our political, social, and cultural realms by intentionally or inadvertently shaping those dangers into potent metaphors and symbols—i.e., the terrifying beings and malignant forces that populate its narratives. Horror fiction finds a problem, a negative, a thing to be potentially eliminated in our world, gives it extra teeth in a fictional realm, and then pits it against characters who attempt to rid themselves and their fictional world of that thing. Even if an author doesn’t intend to include sociopolitical or cultural discourse in their work, the basic structure of horror narrative cannot help but say “Look! There’s something wrong here! Let’s focus on it and do something about it!” That’s the crux of the genre and it’s also the crux of protest: Something is wrong and we must point it out and try to deal with it. In this, horror mirrors reactive political and social movement. It is, by its nature, always a literature of protest.
Consider some of the best-known works of the genre. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, for example, points out the problem of science’s overreach, magnifies it through the character of Victor Frankenstein, gives its consequences extra teeth (and muscles) in the form of Victor’s creature, then entreats its characters and readers to find a solution for science’s unfettered ambition. H. P. Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu does something similar. It points out that any form of exploration—geographical, scientific, cultural, or even artistic—can be dangerous, then magnifies that problem through characters’ insanity and violently cultish behavior. The story gives the problem dire consequences in the form of Cthulhu’s awakening and ultimately calls upon its characters and readers to reconsider any venture into the unknown as a likely leap into catastrophe. Even more explicitly, Richard Matheson’s I am Legend points out the myriad problems that arise from preconception and bias, magnifies them in the escalating conflict between Robert Neville and the vampires, gives them extra teeth (literally) with the vampires and Neville’s terrorism of said vampires, then challenges Neville and readers to dissect who and what actually constitutes monstrousness. All three of these aforementioned works implicitly protest against a norm, a rule, a way of being that permeates the time and place in which they were created. They all warn against a political, social, or cultural construct and, ultimately, advocate for a change in the status quo.
Again and again, horror utilizes this same framework of protest against perceived negative influences as its foundation. It’s as inescapable as a masked, undead killer. And, speaking of, the Friday the 13th films provide an excellent example of how this inherent occupation with opposition and dissent can cut in multiple directions within the very same work. Consider: Various critics have read the Friday the 13th movies as vicious condemnations of teenage immorality, with the entire social climate of American youth being the negative element that needs to be drastically altered. Those drunken, sexed up teens deserve all the machetes coming to them! Equally, however, it’s possible to interpret the films as railing against the psychotic puritanism Jason and Mrs. Vorhees seem to embody, with the censors of teenage exploration and rebellion marked as the true destructive forces. Here, the real horror lies in trying to violently squash the natural and near-universal inclinations of youth. In either case, regardless of critical interpretation, the movies operate in the same manner, as voices of protest telling us that a terrible “thing” exists in our midst—whether wayward teens or oppressive authorities—and we need to protect ourselves from it or change it.
So what does it mean for horror to be naturally primed as a locus of protest? First and foremost, I’d suggest that the genre is capable of much more than the average reader or viewer might suspect. It can act as a powerful site of political, social, or cultural critique since any given monster or destructive force in a horror narrative is already an exaggerated or symbolic representation of a real problem. Because horror often appeals to audiences who are seeking emotional jolts, it can sneak these critiques to audiences who may otherwise avoid or be dismissive of sociopolitical or cultural discussion. How many viewers of George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead went into the film expressly seeking a skewering of casual consumerism? Probably not many, yet that’s precisely what they were exposed to. Merely getting that message, that idea of protest (in this case of excessive consumption) in front of people who don’t immediately reject it—even under the guise of violent entertainment—is half the battle of fomenting sociopolitical change.
That horror is fertile ground for protest also means that its creators should embrace it as such and celebrate its galvanizing potential. Too often, horror writers say they don’t want their work to be “too political” and that they try to focus on “bigger issues” or “telling a good story.” The problem with those viewpoints is that every horror story edges into the realm of the political because of its protest-centric structure. A cosmic horror tale that shows the menace of infinitely powerful alien forces isn’t only dealing in broader philosophical issues; it’s pointing out that immense power is a problem and inhuman behavior is a thing to change. Considering the vast power wielded by the ultra-wealthy and the inhuman behaviors exhibited by much of the global elite, these are clearly sociopolitical concerns in the here and now. The billionaire class might as well be interdimensional monsters for all their antihuman actions. Horror creators need to lean into the genre’s intrinsic capabilities and use their creative energies to find new and frightening ways to depict the problems they see in the world and make more people scared of those problems. They shouldn’t be afraid of their work stepping foot into political discourse because, by virtue of creating in a horror mode, the political has already mixed itself into that work’s foundation.
In our present, a time when near-satanic predators and dystopian technocrats rule much of the globe, we need horror as a vehicle for making the wrongs of the world more terrifying and, thereby, setting audiences in opposition to those wrongs. So many of the horrors we see playing out in reality become dulled by their repetition in news and social media, by their everyday existence. Through the repetition, people begin to view awful things as an unalterable status quo. But, by depicting those same awful things in more extreme ways and showing more of their bone-chilling consequences, the horror genre can reignite the emotions that audiences should feel at witnessing—and living with—deadly serious problems. In this way, horror is a reminder, a warning siren, a person with a huge sign standing on a street corner shouting for the world to do better and be better. It is, in a word, a protest, and it is one we should not be hesitant to join.
